“You trust him?”
“I do, yes. Stiles makes a career out of being irritable, but under the rough exterior is an equally rough but honest interior. You’d like him.”
It was plain Roarke did, and she trusted his instincts. “What I need is project staff who got a little too involved with the experimentation. People who might have taken it home with them. Their family, friends, associates.”
“And so I explained. Relax, Lieutenant, or you’ll give yourself indigestion.” He watched her scarf up onion rings. “Though that’s pretty much a given in any case.”
“You’re just sulking because I didn’t pick out rack of lamb or something. The murders are connected to the project. It just follows logic. You have to figure supply and intent. You don’t pick these particular illegals up on the street. Derivatives, diluted clones, but not the pure goods.”
She lifted her wineglass, studied the pale gold liquid. “Just like this stuff. You can’t walk into the corner liquor store, a twenty-four–seven and cop a bottle of this. You can get cheap substitutes, inferior, what do you call them, labels, but for the snooty stuff you need a high-end supplier and the wherewithal.”
“Or your own vineyard.”
“Or your own vineyard,” she agreed. “You got that, you can drink it like water. He doesn’t settle for substitutes. He’s better than that, deserves the very best. The best illegals, the best wines, the best clothes. And the women of his choice. Just another commodity.”
“He has the means to indulge himself, in every vice. Isn’t it probable he’s worked his way up to this ultimate indulgence?”
“Yeah, if you go by percentages, probabilities of profiling. But there’s more to it, because there are two of them. Teamwork, competition, mutual dependence. The first one fucked up. He hadn’t worked his way up to killing yet, so he panicked. But that upped the stakes. Second guy can’t let his pal get ahead of him. He’s got more violence in him, and isn’t afraid of seeing that part of himself. He enjoys it. Then you bounce back to the first player, and he messes up again. He leaves her alive. He’s losing the game.”
“You’re dismissing multiple personalities?”
“Even if its MPS, we’re dealing with two. But I’m more inclined toward the simple route. Two styles, two killers. I wonder if anybody on the project list had two sons. Brothers maybe. It would make sense if . . . or childhood friends.” She shifted her attention back to Roarke. “Guys who grew up together. That’s like brotherhood, isn’t it?”
He thought of Mick. “It is. More so in a way as you don’t have the family dynamics, the antagonisms, getting in the way. With Mick and Brian and the rest of us, we were a family we created rather than one we’d been born into. It’s a powerful bond.”
“Okay, tell me this—from a species that does the majority of its thinking with its penis—”
“I resent that. I don’t think with my penis more than twenty-five percent of the time.”
“Tell that to somebody you didn’t just nail in the sleep chair.”
“And I can tell you it took very little thought. But your question is?”
“Guys’ll bang anything if they get the chance.”
“Yes, and we’re proud of it.”
“No offense. That’s just the way the machine works. But when they have a choice, a selection, even a fantasy, they tend toward a certain type. Most commonly that fantasy or type is based on a female figure that was or is important to the man. Either the type resembles that figure in some way or opposes it.”
“Since I assume in this case you’re eliminating basic chemistry, emotion, and relationship, I won’t disagree. The female machine runs much the same way.”
“Yeah, that’s how he gets them. Molding himself into their fantasy. But I’m betting the women he selects are looking for the type he is, or appears to be on the surface. He doesn’t have to change much. Why should he? It’s his game. I’m going to run some probabilities.”
Roarke heard the signal from his office for incoming data. “Stiles came through. I’ll transfer that over for you.”
“Thanks.” She glanced at her wrist unit. “Nine-fifteen,” she announced. “Nearly date time.”
Her name was Melissa Kotter, and she was from Nebraska. A genuine farm girl who’d fled the fields for the bright lights of the big city. She had hopes, as did thousands of other young women who streamed into New York, of being an actress. A serious actress, of course—one who would remain true to her art, infusing new life into the classic roles played by all the greats who’d trod the board before her.
While she was waiting to light up Broadway, she waited tables, went to auditions, and took whatever work came her way. It was, in her opinion, the way all the great artists began their careers.
At twenty-one, she was full of optimism and innocence. And dreams. She waited tables with tireless cheer, and her farm-fresh looks earned her as many tips as her speedy service.
She was blonde, blue-eyed, and delicate of build.
A sociable creature, Melissa had made a number of friends. She was always eager for friendships, conversation, experiences.
She adored New York with the passion of a new lover, and in the six months she’d lived in the city, her affection hadn’t dimmed by a watt.